


An Economy of Scars

by errandofmercy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1917378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/pseuds/errandofmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touched by Gimli's affection and hoping to heal the wounds between Elves and Dwarves before she leaves Middle-Earth, Galadriel bestows a strange gift upon Legolas: the power to spare his companion from an untimely death. Unbeknownst to Legolas, however, the Lady's gift has some harrowing consequences. Hurt/comfort with an eventual happy ending. This story will be concluded in the second chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Economy of Scars

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic might seem confusing to some, so I thought I should add: I use the word 'economy' here to indicate conservation and reduction of 'waste', not a monetary system ;) Thank you to all the Gigolas Big Bangers, and to my Tumblr followers for putting up with my many annoying procrastination posts. If you see anything amiss in the story, please feel free to point it out in the comments - I am always open to criticism!

 

A shrinking sickle moon hung in the night sky over Lothlórien, reigning silently over a tableau of brilliant, glistening stars. The Golden Wood was transformed into a silvery paradise when night fell, its soft grasses turned steel blue in the light of the Elven lamps that were suspended in the towering canopies of the Mallorn trees. The Elves of Lorien did not sleep, but moved silently through the branches and winding roots, some alert and others lost in a haze of dreams. Their steps were even more quiet than usual this night, for it was the coming dawn upon which their guests, the Fellowship of the Ring, would depart. With the Fellowship's passing, their own would come as well. The Elves of Lorien would bid farewell to their beloved wood and follow their queen across the western sea to Valinor. Though each fair face was solemn, it was not so much a time of mourning as it was a release – the end of one cycle of life on Middle-Earth, so that another could begin.

 

The boats lay patiently in their moorings, piled with necessities, while the Galadhrim's stores of food and water had been shared with the creatures of the forest. Eventually, the flets and Elven homes that had been hewn from the wood would fade – vines would embrace their columns and cover their walls until, one day, all evidence of their life here would be lost. It was not the way of Elves to hold fast to such things – deep in their bones, they felt the transience of life, and the lure of the distant sea.

 

The members of the Fellowship lay deep in slumber, savoring what might be their last peaceful night before a shrouded, uncertain future. The Hobbits huddled close, not from cold, for the air was mild beneath the Mallorn, but perhaps from the nameless fear of what lay ahead. Boromir and Aragorn, who often woke in darkness from bolts of sudden panic, had abandoned themselves to sleep like children for this last, precious night. Gimli snored loudly and contentedly, swaddled in wrappings provided by their hosts. Only Legolas, who had no need of mortal sleep, sat beside him, suspended in meditation between his troubled thoughts and his careful study of the sleeping Dwarf's countenance.

 

Legolas' life had been rich and full in what was once called the Greenwood, but never in his many years had he encountered a soul who had surprised and challenged him as Gimli had. He had always followed the dictates and customs of his people, absorbing them without effort or resistance from his youth to his time as a guardsman and heir to his father's kingdom. Beyond the innate passivity of Elves, it was not in Legolas' manner to question the way things were, and he had lived his life in the wood in pleasant complicity with no ill result. Until Gimli had crossed his path.

 

At first, Legolas had wondered if it were simply the journey that had changed him. He was no stranger to battle, but becoming a part of the Fellowship exposed him to a world that he had only glimpsed before. The quiet self-indulgence and surprising courage of Hobbits, the intrigues of Men and their wars and quests, and the grudging stolidity of Dwarves were all unfamiliar and alien to him, but now he felt somehow connected to their fates. But neither the Hobbits, for whom his heart warmed, or the Men, whom he admired and respected, had shaken up his thoughts or his spirit so much as the Dwarf. At first Gimli had seemed brutish, unsavory, and ill-tempered, but the more Legolas observed him, the more he realized that he saw only what his people had taught him to see. Gimli was warm, generous with his time and his possessions, and behind his words, kindness flowered, even when they seemed gruff. Gimli cherished the Hobbits like young cousins or nephews, and took pride in both protecting them and delighting them with stories of his folk in the Mountain. And he was no disappointment in battle. With each day that passed, Legolas was discomfited to discover that what he had once taken as truths about the race of Dwarves were misunderstandings, rumors and even downright slander. For the first time in his adult life, he felt ashamed.

 

Upon their arrival in Lothlórien, however, everything had changed. Walking among his own kin, blindfolded like a common beggar, Legolas had felt his heart scraping the rocky bottom of disgrace. But, strangely, it had made him feel closer to Gimli, that moment of disdain and mistrust at the hands of Elves. It was not until Gimli's sudden shift from wariness to awestruck affection at the feet of Galadriel that Legolas's shame began to ebb. Galadriel's compassion and kindness felt somehow like his own, an extension of the fledgling desire of his confused and sympathetic heart.

 

He had done his best to imitate her example in the days that followed, though he still found himself lacking the grace and ease with which Galadriel had welcomed the Dwarf. Gimli had been receptive enough. He had sportingly allowed Legolas to lead him through the paths of the Golden Wood, to bathe with him beneath the silver falls, to show him the glowing mushrooms that looked so like the gemstones treasured by his kin. It turned out there were many stories Gimli had not yet shared, tales of great Dwarven deeds that were better-suited for Elven ears than the campfire stories he told the Hobbits. Legolas listened eagerly, and all the while compared the Dwarf's words to what he had absorbed from his own kin long ago. That which smelled of contempt and condescension, he excised from his mind, filling the void left behind with the rich, jovial timbre of Gimli's speech.

 

And so it was that Legolas found himself resting upon the grass beside his companion, strangely soothed by his loud, unabashed snoring. He looked intently upon the Dwarf's peaceful brow, watching the flutter of his eyelids and the twitching of his whiskers with pleasant absorption. All of a sudden, he felt a strange tug at the surface of his thoughts, like the nibble of a lazy fish upon a line. Gimli's brow creased as he looked on, and the tug became more insistent. It floated up from the depths of his mind, shifting and coalescing into something not unlike a voice. Legolas recognized it with a shiver: it was the thought-voice of the Lady Galadriel.

 

_Legolas, eager child of the Greenwood,_

_Come now to edge of the silver pond,_

_Where Elf and Dwarf in cleansing water stood,_

_Help me to heal our people's broken bond._

 

Legolas frowned at the sensation of having his private thoughts invaded. Thought-speech was an Elven trait which he neither used nor enjoyed. Still, Galadriel's powerful will and their shared affinity for the Dwarf pulled him to his feet. He padded across the grass, tracing the path that he and Gimli had taken a few days before, until he came to the edge of the reflective pool. Galadriel emerged from behind a Mallorn trunk, a faint smile playing across her lips. Her radiant hair and pearly raiment glowed even brighter than the pale sickle moon as she approached, and a strange light danced in her eyes.

 

“You were swift to answer my call, young one,” she said. Her true voice carried the same alien coolness as the one that had invaded his mind. “Perhaps your desire to make amends with the Dwarves runs deeper even than I thought.”

 

Legolas regarded her evenly. “It is not the race of Dwarves, but one in particular, who has my allegiance,” he said.

 

Galadriel glided closer to him in her seamless, unnerving fashion. A soft laugh, like a ripple on the water, escaped her lips. “Your allegiance,” she repeated, a shadow of mockery in her voice. “Of course.” She came to rest an arm's reach away from Legolas, folding her long, elegant hands together. “Tomorrow my people are to present your company with an array of gifts. It is not our custom, but we are leaving this world, and it is the least we can do to offer you strength and protection on your journey.”

 

Legolas did not know how to reply. He tried to read her fathomless eyes, but found nothing there within his understanding. “That is a kindness,” he finally said. “You have our gratitude.”

 

“It is not your gratitude which I require,” replied Galadriel , and again Legolas was sure he was the butt of some hidden insult. “What I need from you, Legolas Thranduillion, is your faith.”

 

For a long moment, neither spoke, and the only sound to be heard was the gentle rustle of the wind through the Mallorn trees. “I do not understand,” said Legolas.

 

Galadriel's lips peeled back into an ethereal smile. “I shall give you something tomorrow that will aid you on the battlefield,” she continued, “but tonight, I wish to bestow upon you another kind of gift.”

 

“What sort of gift?” asked Legolas. He stiffened as she placed a long-fingered hand upon his chest.

 

“A secret. A promise. A spell of great power, woven in the days of old, in a land across the sea.” Galadriel's fingers slid down his silky tunic and dropped to her side. “The enchantment will permit you to spare one of your fallen comrades from the very jaws of death, if he should fall in battle or to some other foe. You are free to choose the one you rescue, but I bestow this gift upon you with my own intentions made clear. I would have you use this magic as a final gesture of good will from the Eldar to the Dwarves.” Galadriel's face darkened for a moment, like the moon hidden behind a veil of cloud. Legolas stood, transfixed. “However, with a magic this ancient and strong there are always consequences. Some are known to me, and some are yet to be revealed. The enchantment is more powerful if it is performed without the knowledge of either. That, Legolas, is why I require your faith.”

 

Legolas blinked, his thoughts murky and confused. “My talent lies in fighting, not in magic, my Lady,” he said. “I fear you have chosen a poor candidate to bear this enchantment.”

 

Galadriel gave a knowing smile. “Nay, young one. Your skill in magic is not important here. All that is required is the desire to give aid, and the faith to give of your strength without knowledge of the cost.” She grasped Legolas' shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, her thought-voice penetrating and resonating in his mind. “ _Do you accept?”_

 

There was little choice, it seemed. Unsettled and uncertain as he was, Legolas knew he could not resist the will of the queen. Surely it could not hurt to possess such a spell, if ever another member of the Fellowship did fall. Weakly, he nodded his head. “I do.”

 

Galadriel's eyes bore into his, and he began to feel the crackle of magic from her fingers where she held him fast. “Very well,” she said, and slowly her voice and the voice of her thoughts rose in an ancient incantation:

_Aiya, Eru Illúvatar, Aulë carastra, a tulë nan sì!_

_Lavuvanyet ní-turien - nás harna!_

_Tullen lyé-rehtien, aní lavë lyé-enwinyata. Násië!_

 

Magic sparked across Galadriel's hands in arcs like miniature lightning. Legolas felt paralyzed, unable to avert his eyes from her impassioned stare. His skin began to crawl and heat radiated into his shoulders as she clutched him ever tighter. She continued to chant, her words ringing in his mind, and the world around them began to spin and shift like the darkest of dreams. Legolas was seized by dizziness and fright. His throat was dry and his limbs shook with strain, but there was no turning back now. The ancient magic washed over him, immense and unyielding, and he stood trembling before her until he could endure it no more, and he swooned into blessed darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

When Legolas returned to his senses, he found himself slumped against a Mallorn trunk among the rest of the Fellowship, who were still fast asleep. In the leafy canopy above, birds were beginning their morning songs at the first pink suggestions of dawn. Beside him, Gimli was still snoring in earnest. There was a painful throbbing in his head, but he had no memory that could explain it, and no idea how the hours has passed so quickly. Perhaps he had fallen into some strange and troubled dream, he thought. He rose stiffly and left the company in search of some cool water to soothe his headache.

 

When the sun had risen, and the company was ready to depart, Galadriel and her handmaidens presented them each with a gift for their journey. Legolas marveled at the beautiful, supple bow that was now his, although he could not discern the meaning behind Galadriel's strange smile. He watched with patient amusement as she spoke to Gimli, and when the Dwarf climbed into the boat at last, clutching three of her precious hairs, Legolas merely shook his head. Galadriel was, and would remain, forever a mystery to him. But even if her majesty and grace dominated their conversation for the days that followed, he was pleased to have the company of Gimli and to bask in the reflection of his joy. Gimli's happiness was infectious, and despite his growing sense of danger as they paddled down the river, the Dwarf's impassioned declarations lifted his spirits against the shadows to come.

 

* * *

 

 

Time wore on, and the quest of the Fellowship grew ever more dark and hopeless. Legolas' feet carried him over high mountain and sweeping plain, and all the while the Lady's enchantment lay dormant and unknown within his bones. He played his part well, protecting the Fellowship with his sharp eyes and his quick bow, and he drew ever closer in companionship with his new-found friend. When at length he and Gimli came across the body of Boromir, propped against the trunk of a great tree and pierced with arrows, Legolas felt a strange stirring beneath his belly that he could not name. Some unfamiliar speech seemed to rise to the tip of his tongue, but the feeling passed as soon as he saw the emptiness in the eyes of the heir of Denethor. As he sat in the boat with Aragorn and Gimli and watched Boromir's body disappear over the falls of Rauros, he wondered if it were some Elvish mourning song he had long since forgotten that had tugged at his breast. But all thought of it fled his mind as he and his companions turned their attention fully to the pursuit of the captured Hobbits. The sentiment did not stir again for many long months. It was not until the War of the Ring had been won, and he and Gimli had made their pleasant journeys together to Fangorn and Algarond, that fate at last saw fit to call it into being.

 

Legolas trotted down the winding path that led from Fangorn back toward the city of Edoras. His step was even lighter than usual, since his lungs still held the fresh, rich air of the forest. After bathing and drinking lustily of the cool, clear water of the Entwash, he and Gimli had filled their drinking skins and soaked their garments, so that now no stain of travel or weariness marked them. Even Arod, who had first looked on the water with a snort of suspicion, had cooled his hooves and wet his muzzle. Gimli led him on foot, tarrying about a hundred paces behind. Now that there was no quest to undertake beyond their own pleasure, they had slowly abandoned the courtesies of traveling in a company, and each had resumed the natural proclivities of his race. Legolas ran ahead, exploring and picking wild plants for their next meal, while Gimli took the road at a slower but steadier pace. They continued the routine they had established upon leaving Minas Tirith after the coronation; sharing songs and tales, joking and prodding one another in jest, and stopping when the mood struck them or a particularly opportune spot presented itself. It was a welcome change from the tedium of traveling by night, ever on the lookout for bands of wandering Orcs.

 

The city was three days' ride from where he now stood, but at their leisurely pace Legolas estimated it might take up to a week to reach the gates. Since the road had been cleared of Mordor's dark hand, a few settlements had sprung up on the plains between the walls of Helm's Deep and the forests of Fangorn. They were modest but hospitable hamlets, mostly comprised of former citizens of Edoras who sought to reclaim the fertile grassland for farming or grazing, and they had welcomed the two former companions of the Ringbearer with open arms. Legolas was glad to break bread with the Men of this land and their grateful families, though he occasionally felt a pang of longing for his own folk. The Elves of Mirkwood would be the last to take their voyage to the sea, he knew. There was no danger of being left behind, lest he choose to stay. When he was ready, he would return, and they would be waiting.

 

In the meantime, Legolas enjoyed the freedom and familiarity of the road, knowing that nothing but friendly faces and rolling plains lay between him and the halls of the Rohirrim. Though their journey was drawing to an end, he would see to it that the ride to Minas Tirith was as easy and unhurried. For reasons he did not care to examine too closely, he wished to keep Gimli at his side for as long as was possible. When the time came for their parting...

 

Legolas pushed the thought from his mind. They would cross that bridge when the road led them there, and not before. Feeling a sudden pinprick of longing, he turned on his heel and raced back to his companion. Gimli smiled at his approach, a glimmer of white behind his thick, newly-plaited beard.

 

“You are so light on your feet,” Gimli chuckled, “that they seem not to touch the ground! I think even our old friend Strider would have hard time tracking you through the forest.”

 

Legolas ran his hands over Arod's muzzle and mane with an affection that was, in truth, somewhat misplaced. If he were honest with himself, Legolas knew that he would rather have wrapped his arms around the Dwarf, but the horse did not seem to mind acting as a proxy for the outpourings of his heart. “If Lord Aragorn wished to find me, I would happily reveal myself,” he joked. “But I should like to send him a courier with a royal invitation, rather than have him stooped over my footprints in the dirt!” He looked at Gimli over the horse's shoulder, searching his ruddy face for perhaps a second too long.

 

“Are you well, my friend?” Gimli asked, his brow slightly creased. His simple shirt billowed in the breeze, and Legolas saw beneath it flickers of soft skin and ginger hair. “Do you miss the woods already?”

 

Legolas smiled and tried to mask his feelings, though he could neither name them nor cover them up. “Indeed,” he replied. It was not wholly untrue. The journey to Fangorn had dazzled and enthralled him, but it was the gentle closeness of Gimli's company which he had now begun to miss in earnest. He chided himself. It was foolish to begin mourning something that had not yet ended. “Fangorn was a place of wonder. I shall never look upon such beauty again... unless someday we may make the journey once more.”

 

The Dwarf scoffed. “I might not live that long,” he said, “and neither of us know where our paths will take us. Your people no doubt will soon be heading for the sea... will you join them?” Legolas hoped that it was a glint of sadness that he glimpsed in Gimli's hooded eyes.

 

“I do not think so,” said Legolas, turning his head to the road so that Gimli would not read too much from his expression. “There is much left in this land that is dear to me, and much I have yet to discover. There are those I would not leave behind for any cause, until their mortal time is up. Even if my people fade into the West, somehow I think I will stay behind. I can imagine no other end.”

 

“I hope that those words are not solely for my benefit,” said Gimli. His face was hidden by Arod's sturdy neck. “I would not have you stay behind for the sake of a few mortals.”

 

Legolas said nothing of that. “What about you, friend Dwarf?” he asked, not without a flicker of unease. “Will you return to Erebor and tell your father of your great deeds?”

 

“I suppose I must,” said Gimli, “though I am loath to go back. I miss my folk, certainly. Their talk, their business, even the smell of dust and stone haunt me with longing. But there will be duties and occupations which I do not wish to take up on my return.”

 

“I understand,” said Legolas. Handling matters of court and returning to the thrall of his father would seem maddeningly dull compared to his adventures with the Fellowship.

 

“Glóin is getting anxious,” Gimli grumbled. Legolas' ears perked up – it was rare for Gimli to speak of his own family in anything but generalities. “He wants grandchildren.” The Dwarf gave a great sigh, as if chafing under an invisible burden. “I'm afraid he will be disappointed. And I haven't the heart to tell him.”

 

Legolas' heart tensed like a ready bowstring, but he spoke with caution. He remembered all too clearly what Gimli had told young Éowyn of Dwarven customs. “You mean then, you will forgo the... taking of a wife, and devote yourself to craft?”

 

Gimli hesitated, and time seemed to stretch on between them. “I suppose,” he said at last, but his voice was full of reluctance. “If there are but two roads to take.”

 

Legolas stiffened. “What do you mean?” He glanced across Arod's back; Gimli was stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.

 

“Now that I have traveled through the wide world, and seen so many kinds of folk in so many places, I wonder if there isn't more to life than what I have been taught,” said Gimli. “And besides, my heart has already been broken once. For most Dwarves, that is the end of it.”

 

They walked in silence. The waning afternoon sun began to dip beneath the flat horizon, turning the plains a fiery gold. At first, Legolas was confused, but he soon realized the selfishness of his thoughts. He had been hoping that Gimli was speaking of him. But it was not so. “Galadriel?” he asked gently.

 

“Aye,” said Gimli. “It is a strange thing, though. There is no word for it in my language, nor in the tongue of Men that I have used with you. Though I am struck down by the mere memory of her beauty, I never desired to make a wife of the Lady of the Golden Wood. Yet I would lay down my life and all the treasures to my name at her command. My folk would scorn me for such devotion to an Elf, and a married one at that.”

 

Legolas watched the sinking sun with growing perplexity. His heart felt suddenly heavy. “That is a pity,” was all he said.

 

When the sun slipped away and the world fell into shadow, they made an easy camp not too far from the road behind a cluster of boulders. As Gimli bedded down for the night, Legolas climbed atop the stones and watched the stars appear, one by one, like old friends. Gimli snored peacefully, and when the sky grew pale once more, Legolas gazed down from his perch with a longing he had only begun to comprehend.

 

* * *

  

The road continued its meandering path over the plains, and the pair, being in no rush, stopped frequently at quiet pools and shady copses as they passed. Around midday, Gimli seated himself beneath a rare tree and pulled a hearty meal of bread, cheese, and sausages from his pack. Legolas, who had breakfasted on lembas and felt no hunger, decided to climb the tree and see how far down the road his eyes could take him.

 

“Well?” called Gimli from below. “What do your Elf eyes see up there, lad?”

 

Legolas gave a satisfied cry. “I see the village! The one where we stopped on our way to Fangorn!”

 

“How far is it?” Gimli asked.

 

Legolas squinted. The village was there, all right, but something was not quite as it should be. The thatched-roof cottages and storehouses, with their roofs of golden plain grass and their walls of clay, seemed somehow darker, almost black. Smoke rose from places where no chimneys stood, and the few cobbled streets seemed to be empty. And – he realized with a start – flames leapt up from the farmers' fields where vegetables and grain had stood a few short weeks before. Unable to distinguish any more, he scrambled down the tree trunk, urged Gimli to his feet and shared the news.

 

“The village? Burned? But how can it be?” Gimli protested. “Are you sure your eyes do not deceive you?”

 

“They have never lied to me before,” Legolas said. “There are other evils in this land besides the fiends of Mordor. In any case, we must ride at once and see if there is still time for us to help. Pack up your things; come!”

 

Gimli grumbled, but his heart was true – in a moment he was clasping Legolas' sides as they tore down the road toward the ruined settlement. The smell of burning grass assaulted their noses as soon as they came within a mile of the place.

 

Legolas whispered to Arod, and the horse slowed to a trot as they looked around at the scene of carnage. The few buildings that had been erected by the villagers since the end of the war had been reduced to rubble, many of them still emitting foul plumes of smoke. Tools and household goods lay scattered about the ground, signaling a hasty flight from the farmers' homes. Much of the livestock lay dead or dying in the charred fields, and a few could be seen wandering at a distance beyond the ruined fence.

 

“Who could have done this?” Gimli exclaimed, his face red with indignation. “And so soon after the fall of Sauron! Have we not lost enough lives and ruined enough homes for one lifetime?” Legolas walked on in silent agreement.

 

The Elf slid off Arod's side, and held him as Gimli climbed back to the ground. “We must search for survivors,” he said. “You take the north side of the village, and I will search the south. If you find anything, call for me.” He tied Arod to a singed fencepost and proceeded to sift through the rubble and debris, hoping to find some living creature left unscathed by this cruelty. An hour later, they reconvened, both blackened with soot, crestfallen, and empty-handed.

 

“Nothing?” Legolas asked.

 

Gimli shook his head. “Not a soul. But there aren't enough bodies strewn about to account for everyone who lived here. They must have fled somehow.”

 

Legolas wiped his filthy hands on his tunic. “Then the foes will surely have pursued them,” he said. “Come. We must do what we can, while there is still time.”

 

“ _If_ there is still time, you mean,” muttered Gimli as he mounted Arod once more.

 

It did not take long before Legolas' ears picked up a distant chorus of moans and forlorn weeping. He spurred the horse on even faster, but the road appeared deserted all the way to the horizon. Following the sound, they rode into the grass towards a large, circular growth of scrubby bushes with a gnarled tree at its center. There, hidden among the undergrowth, he could make out the dun-colored forms of villagers, stooped and huddled together against further onslaught.

 

A figure rushed toward them from the group of hunched figures, brandishing a charred and bloodstained hoe. He was a young man with loose, dark hair about his shoulders, brown as a nut from a life of working in the sun. His eyes glinted fiercely, but his hands trembled. He called to them in a voice that was hoarse from screaming.

 

“Turn back! Turn back and leave us alone! We have nothing left to give you!”

 

Legolas checked the horse and dismounted, keeping his hands visible to the harried farmer. “We are no foes of yours,” he called. “We are warriors from the White City. Your people offered us food and wine when last the moon was new.” The villager lowered his weapon slightly as Legolas continued. “I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and this is Gimli, Gloin's son, from the fortress of Erebor under the Mountain.”

 

The villager stared. “Dwarf and Elf... yes, I remember. The Ringbearer's companions. You stayed at my father's house...” Suddenly, his face flooded with rage, and he took a threatening step towards them once more. “But where were you when they came, black-faced and howling in the night? Where were you when they burnt the house and all the homes of my brothers? You could have stopped them! Yet you only emerge once the evil has passed!” He spat bitterly upon the ground at Legolas' feet. It was lucky for him that the Elf was in good spirits from their journey, lest he find himself with an arrow in an unfortunate place.

 

“We sensed no evil when we first passed through this land,” said Gimli as he planted his feet at Legolas' side. “But we tracked you here in the hopes of finding your attackers, and bringing them to justice. Can you tell us who it was that seized your village?”

 

The young man shuddered as he recalled the memory. “They were beastly creatures, too large to be men, and yet they walked upon two legs like you and I. Great hunched shoulders, harsh voices, and faces like black serpents...” He lowered his weapon to the ground. “They seemed to possess some fell magic, though they could not tame it. It was such that set our homes and farms alight, not their crude maces and spears.”

 

Gimli groaned aloud. “Orcs,” he concluded.

 

Legolas sighed. “Since the fall of Mordor,” he told the man, “they have no lord to serve, and they are bitter and restless. Tell us which way they went, and they will not trouble you again.”

 

The villager pointed down the plain towards a distant, rocky ridge. Littered with craggy boulders, it was the perfect place for a ramshackle Orc-camp. Legolas went to Arod and took their drinking skins and bundles of food from the pack. With an apologetic glance toward Gimli, he offered them to the young man.

 

“Here is fresh water from the Entwash, Elvish waybread and good food from the White City. Feed your families as best you can,” said Legolas. The villager accepted with a murmur of gratitude.

 

Gimli pulled thoughtfully at his beard. “Without a master to lead them, the Orcs will not have the courage to move in daylight. When the sun rises, make for the gates of Edoras. The Lady Éowyn will give you succor. When the Orcs are slain, we will send word there, and you can return to rebuild your homes.”

 

Legolas looked back to Arod, who was watching them with deep brown eyes. The Elf stooped to Gimli's ear. “Should we give them the horse?” he whispered. “They may have wounded to carry down the road.”

 

Gimli set his jaw. “My heart is torn. But we know not how many Orcs await us in that pass, and if they have stolen mounts from these folk they shall best us if we are without. When the beasts are dispatched, we could send horses from Edoras to aid them. I think it best to keep him, just in case.”

 

Legolas patted Gimli's shoulder gently. “You are wise, my friend,” he said. Then, turning to the villagers, he spoke once more. “We will ride out at once and seek the company of Orcs. Take the road by daylight, and may you come to no further harm. May the blessings of the Woodland Realm and King Elessar be upon you.”

 

“And of Erebor,” Gimli added. They mounted Arod and took off at a great speed toward the rocky outcropping where the Orcs had gathered.

 

* * *

  

They came to the great field of boulders just as night was falling once again over the plains. Gimli thought the land was silent, but Legolas could hear the clang of metal implements and the hiss of argument in the Black Speech. Legolas dropped to the ground and handed the reins to Gimli, who accepted them with reluctance. “I will look ahead and determine their strength and number. Stay out of sight.” Gimli nodded and led the horse behind a large rock, while Legolas stole ahead on silent feet.

 

The Orc-camp was a messy sprawl of stolen goods and filthy waste. Animal carcasses, half-eaten and buzzing with flies, lay forgotten upon the sparse grass, while the livestock that still lived were crowded roughly into a makeshift pen. Orcs lounged by a roaring fire comprised of thatch bundles and cottage beams, some squabbling over food, some sharpening their jagged weapons on the stones. The stench of rot and unwashed bodies filled the windless air.

 

Legolas made a quick count – forty-nine Orcs were within his sight, though there might have been a few in the surrounding lands gathering wood or attending to their own business. Mercifully, there were none of the horrific Uruk-hai or trolls he had been forced to battle in the months past. Their weapons were many, but nothing he could tell bore any traces of dark enchantments. He suspected that the 'magic' that the villagers had suffered was merely a trick of sulphur and saltpeter learned from the White Wizard.

 

Though he was loath to put his bow to use once more after so much endless battle, there was something about the thought of fighting at Gimli's side again that made Legolas' heart beat faster. The war had made them brothers, of a sort, and he was filled with pride as he confirmed the certainty of their easy victory over these creatures. They fought together with a grace and perfect harmony that outmatched either of their races alone. Their friendship had been forged in the heat of battle, and though it had cooled into something kinder, he still thirsted for a last taste of the hunt.

 

Gimli was waiting earnestly behind his cover, his heavy axe in one hand and the horse's reins in the other. Legolas quickly shared his discovery with his companion, whose eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

 

“We'll make mincemeat of them,” he growled. A grim smile glinted from behind his beard.

 

The plan was simple. Legolas would crawl to the other side of the camp and position himself invisibly among the rocks. There, he would pick off as many of the Orcs as he could, starting with those in the periphery until their cronies closer to the fire sensed an attack. Seeing no enemy, they would begin to turn on one another, and in the ensuing chaos, Legolas would spring from his hiding place, knives whirling, while Gimli tore into the fray with his axe. If any of the Orcs could find time to mount, they would summon Arod and pursue them over the flat, empty plains until none remained. Both warriors agreed it would be an easy skirmish, a mere morsel after the intense battles they had fought together. With one last conspiratorial glance at the Dwarf, Legolas crept away to launch his stealth attack.

 

All was silent in the Orc-camp but the crackling of the fire and the keening of the frightened animals as Legolas nocked his first arrow. He leveled his arm at a lone Orc, sitting at the edge of the circle and gnawing on a bloody stump of bone. With a swift, soundless motion, the arrow pierced the Orc's skull and he fell lifeless to the ground. Legolas slew another solitary Orc, and another, before taking out a pair squabbling over meat with a single arrow that shot through both their heads. However, as the two crashed to the ground, their weapons fell upon the boulder beneath them with a loud clang. The other Orcs looked up with a start, and immediately began to howl and rush about in search of the attacker. Legolas waited until none were looking his way before unleashing a volley of arrows into the throng, taking out another trio of Orcs with a wet, squelching sound. But his cover was blown. With a cry to Gimli, he drew his long knife and sprang like a mongoose from the cleft between the rocks, slashing and swinging in the old, bloody dance of combat.

 

Gimli charged forth from his cover with a roar, hefting his great axe above his shoulders with a butcher's certainty. The Orcs rushed toward him, and he cleaved the first in half with a single stroke. Another Orc threatened his flank, and he swiveled his axe sideways to slice through its mottled black flesh. Legolas steered closer to him with each stroke of his knife, though he was beset by a great many and his progress was slow. He much preferred the speed and distance of ranged fighting, but that strategy only held for so long in a battle of two against fifty. Gimli cried out with relief as, at last, the Elf leapt upon a high boulder and took up his bow once more. He took a position protecting the Dwarf's back, and beat back the dwindling host of Orcs. Arrow after arrow found its mark between their squinting, beady eyes. Gimli slashed and hacked at the fell creatures until he stood in a pile of severed limbs. The remaining Orcs tripped over the bodies of their companions to reach him, and while they stumbled he buried his axe-blade in their misshapen skulls.

 

When his arrows were spent, Legolas slid down the face of the rock and speared a dozen more Orcs upon the blade of his knife. At last, the air rang with silence and the quick puffs of their breathing. The Orcs of this band drew breath no more. Gimli, whose hands were planted on his thighs as he regained his wind, looked up at Legolas and grinned. Legolas felt a warmth that had nothing to do with his racing heart or the light sweat that had broken under his clothes.

 

“Not too bad,” Gimli teased. “For a minute there I was worried you'd gotten rusty already.”

 

“And I feared that you had fallen asleep behind the boulder,” retorted Legolas. “So accustomed have you become to our life of ease.”

 

They shared a chuckle and began to look over the bodies for items from the village. Many of the Orcs' weapons seemed to have been pilfered from other places – Legolas even uncovered some familiar items from the last stand against Mordor. These were the leftovers of war, crumbs from the table of Sauron. Their black blades glittered with sinister, unknown poisons.

 

“Gimli,” called Legolas. “Come and look at this.”

 

Gimli eyed the tainted daggers and scimitars with disgust. “These are foul things,” he said. “We should bury them deep, or send the men of Edoras after them to melt them down for some other purpose. It is a pity that so much evil remains in the land, even after Sauron has left it.”

 

Legolas nodded. “Perhaps the stains of evil can never be truly cleansed,” he mused. “You are right that the weapons should be forgotten, or destroyed. But first, should we not return these wretched creatures to their masters?” He crossed to the makeshift cage where the stolen animals were held. With a few gentle words whispered in Elvish, the terror faded from their eyes and their frantic braying quieted. A rusted lock held the bars in place, though there was no key in sight.

 

“One of these Orcs must have the key to the pen,” said Gimli. “I suppose we will have to search them.” He stooped over the nearest body and rolled it over, looking at the neck and waist of the dead creature for a chain of some sort.

 

Legolas began to search as well. He worked his way from the cage past the ashes of the fire and back to the edge of the camp, where they had first emerged into battle. A particularly large Orc lay motionless in the grass, and he was forced to wrap his arms around its stiffening trunk in order to heave it onto its back. It was with his hands full, and his back turned, that the last survivor of the Orcs sprang from his hiding place.

 

The key-holder had been crouched beneath the cage when the battle began. Being smaller and rather more intelligent than most of his kind, he had remained hidden behind the trembling forms of goats and sheep until his brethren had all been slain. No opportunity for escape had presented itself after that, until this final, shining moment. The Dwarf had lain his axe upon the ground, and was searching the corpses of the Orc's former companions in earnest. The Elf was without arrows, and too far now even to reach him with a leap. With a triumphant hiss, he bolted from his hiding place and rounded on the Dwarf. Before his quarry could stand, he raised his black-tipped scimitar and plunged it deep into Gimli's muscular side.

 

Gimli howled and fell in a heap atop the dead Orc he had been searching. He groped wildly for his axe, trying to turn his head and body to catch sight of his attacker, but the Orc had pinioned him like a stuck pig. With a snaggle-toothed grin, the Orc pushed the blade deeper into his belly. Gimli groaned and his legs went suddenly limp.

 

Legolas heard the Dwarf's cry and immediately sprang into action. He whirled around to see the manure-smeared body of a lesser Orc standing in front of the animal pen, grinning wolfishly at him across the distance. Legolas' eyes traced down the Orc's spindly arm, to his cracked fingernails, to the ugly curve of his scimitar, to the place where it bit cruelly into Gimli's tender flesh. His heart stopped.

 

Gimli.

 

The blade was half-buried in the Dwarf's stout, motionless body. Legolas' lungs refused to draw breath. Without a thought, without hesitation, he hurled his knife at the Orc's neck. Its silver shaft spun like a falling star, once, twice, and then it clattered to the ground. The Orc's head fell beside it in a sickening spray of black blood.

 

Legolas ran as if he were underwater, bereft of time, or sound, or air to breathe. He fell in a heap at Gimli's side, not knowing what to do, not knowing if he should withdraw the sword or turn his friend upon his back or simply lay there in the dirt and weep. He stooped to the ground and sought the Dwarf's eyes, which already were growing dim.

 

“Gimli... no... it cannot be...”

 

Dark liquid seeped from the corner of the Dwarf's mouth. “Looks like... we missed one...” he choked out. His lungs clenched desperately around the cold metal, forcing him to wince.

 

Legolas' face burned. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he combed his hands uselessly through Gimli's ginger hair. Dwarven blood soaked through his clothing as he knelt, sticking to his knees and pooling at his feet. “I abandoned you...” he sobbed. “I should have stayed by your side... oh, my friend, forgive me...”

 

Gimli summoned enough of his waning strength to scoff. “I am a warrior,” he ground out. “It has always been my fate. I am only glad-” he choked as the liquid began to flow freely from his lips, “-that you are by my side...”

 

Legolas cradled Gimli's head in his hands, speaking words of comfort in his own tongue to ease his friend's pain. He closed his eyes and felt a sudden, ardent desire that he, too, could slip away, to follow Gimli wherever the winds of the spirit world would take him. He would gladly have traded his own soul to spare his friend from such a cruel and untimely end...

 

As he lay draped over his fallen comrade, something deep in the bones of Legolas began to shift. His voice grew strange, and the words of comfort melted into something altogether unknown. An incantation rose unbidden to his lips, familiar although he did not know their meaning. His eyes rolled back into the hollows of his skull and his skin began to crawl with the crackle of ancient magic. The chant grew louder and louder, and he clutched Gimli's fading form with trembling hands:

 

_Aiya, Eru Illúvatar, Aulë carastra, a tulë nan sì!_

_Lavuvanyet ní-turien - nás harna!_

_Tullen lyé-rehtien, aní lavë lyé-enwinyata. Násië!_

_Aiya, Eru Illúvatar, Aulë carastra--_

 

Legolas no longer knew who or where he was. His mind was consumed with a solitary thought – his desire to spare his friend from death. He felt the empty Orc-camp grow dim and distant around him as the magic swelled within, save for Gimli, a single point of light in an endless void. A searing pain ripped through his belly, and the chant ended in an anguished cry. Then, all at once, his world was drenched in darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

A soft snuffling in his ear woke Gimli with a start. He cracked his dry eyes open and squinted into the gathering dark. Arod was nuzzling the side of his face in earnest, and something warm on top of him was quivering. A half-dead Orc? he wondered. He wriggled to his feet, strangely dizzy, and gave a gasp of horror.

 

It was Legolas who lay upon him. The Elf had rolled onto his side, clutching weakly at a great gash in his side that seeped with blood and dark rivulets of poison. His face was pale as the waning moon, and his breath came in short, uncertain stutters. Beside them lay a dead Orc, its graying hand still clutching a tainted scimitar.

 

Gimli's memory was st odds with what his eyes now told him. Was it not he who had been injured? Was it not Legolas who had held him in his last moments, whispering sweet words into his ringing ears? How could he have remembered such a scene in error?

 

In any case, there was no time to ponder. Arod whinnied nervously at his side and lowered himself to the ground so that Gimli could drape the Elf's limp body across his back. “Take him to Edoras,” he said to Arod. “You'll get there faster without my weight.” He smoothed the Elf's brow gently with a hand, trying in vain to mask his fear. “Stay with me, Legolas. I will be hot on your heels."

 

Arod sped away as fast as his hooves could carry him. Gimli raced after them across the plain, forcing himself to think only of the hardiness of Elves and not the cruel tortures of the poisons of Mordor.

 

* * *

  

The world of Legolas was a barren place, its emptiness colored only by the clamor of hooves and the drone of pain that rang in his ears. His eyes would not stay open, and caught nothing but brief glimpses of muddy grass and Arod's pink-stained hide. The wound at his side burned with pain as he had never felt in all his days of combat. Each shift of the horse's weight and rush of air over the broken skin brought renewed agony. It was all he could do to grasp Arod's belly weakly with his feet and pray he did not fall.

 

He did not know what had happened. There was scarcely room in his brain for wondering, so consumed was he with the burning of the wound. But he knew that it was wrong, somehow, that the poison-tipped blade had pierced another's flesh and not his own. Yet here he was, bleeding, suffering, fading.

 

Blood dripped freely down his leg, his quavering hands unable to press firmly enough to stanch the bleeding. He felt his body grow cold, and lay his head upon Arod's soft mane. The scent of the horse comforted him as his thoughts slowed. Like a child, he grew drowsy, and the horse's movement rocked him like the memory of his father's tender arms. Pulling a last breath of warm air into his lungs, he fell at last into shadow.

 

* * *

 

 

Gimli sprinted over the plain as if the hounds of Mordor were at his heels. Never in his life had he run so swiftly – not even during the pursuit of the once-captured Hobbits to the edge of Fangorn. His feet cried out for rest, and his lungs burned, but he heeded them not. The only thought in his mind was the image of the Elf, listless and pale, blood weeping from his side. He could not fathom how their places had been traded after the last Orc's sneak attack. It was impossible, and yet it was.

 

As his legs carried him across the flat, scrubby ground, he thought of the Lady of the Golden Wood. In the moment before he had lost consciousness, he had heard a strange voice calling to him in the Elvish tongue. Briefly he had wondered if it were Galadriel speaking in his mind, or at least a memory of her voice, called forth to comfort him. Now he suspected that some grim sorcery was at work. There was no other explanation for the miraculous disappearance of his wounds... and their perfect relocation onto the body of Legolas. Was it her, he wondered, or had Legolas had that trick up his sleeve all along? It was a foul one indeed. No self-respecting Dwarf would pass a mortal injury onto another, even an immortal comrade. It was... unnatural. And if Legolas perished from the lingering effects of the poison, the guilt and bitterness of his passing would haunt Gimli to the end of his days.

 

It had been many hours since he last caught sight of Arod's white tail in the distance, and now Gimli could only hope that the Elf had clung to life up to the gates of Edoras. As the night receded into pale morning, weariness dragged Gimli toward the ground with a vengeful strength. He set his jaw and urged his stout legs forward despite the ache. He would reach the city if it took every last ounce of strength he had, even if the journey left him lame. For good or ill, he had to reach Legolas' side as soon as his mortal feet could bring him. His debt must be repaid.

 

* * *

  

The guards at the great horse-head gate gaped when they saw a lone Dwarf stumbling towards the city. At first they thought him drunk, but when he finally reached them, wild-eyed and shaking, his voice was to clear and earnest for drink. If they had not received the wounded Elf of which he spoke a few short hours before, they would have thought him mad. But he was one of the Nine Walkers, a friend of Edoras and the Lady Éowyn, and so they let him pass to the house of healing where his comrade lay. Erkenhart would take care of them now.

 

With legs that felt frail as saplings, Gimli tottered across the main plaza of Edoras to the small hut where the guards had directed him. His head throbbed and his throat was dry as death. Surely there would be water in the healing house to wet his lips... after he found Legolas, of course. As he approached, he saw a flicker of movement within the house, and the small, dark head of a boy peered over the threshold.

 

“Are you Gimli, Gloin's son?” asked the child. His eyes were dark and liquid, and he wore an apron with many pockets laden with herbs and small tools. He seemed strangely confident for one so young.

 

Gimli dragged himself forward. “Aye,” he huffed. “That I am.”

 

“He has been calling for you,” said the boy. “Your Elf.” He looked down at the dusty earth. “His wound was tainted with _Morgurth_ , a poison from the Black Lands. He... suffers.”

 

Gimli trudged after him into the cramped entryway of the house, his heart growing heavy. The ceiling was hung with bundles of fragrant, drying herbs, and vials of unguents and powders lined the crooked walls. A fire was in the hearth, its flames licking at the edges of a bubbling iron crock. The boy stirred its foul-smelling contents with a wooden spoon and then placed a cool drinking skin into Gimli's hands. “Where is he?” asked the Dwarf, though his voice had dwindled to an unsteady wheeze. “Take me to him.” He would not quench his thirst until his eyes had seen breath rise and fall in Legolas' breast.

 

The boy beckoned him silently down a winding hallway and into a small room thick with the acrid scents of medicine and sage smoke. A thin curtain was draped over one side of the room, smeared with dark stains that Gimli did not wish to examine. The boy pulled back the cloth to reveal a low bed of straw and linen. Upon it lay the pale but breathing form of Legolas. He had been stripped of his bloodied garments, and a thin sheet of cloth was drawn over his lap for the sake of modesty. His fair face twisted with pain and his long hair hung from the bed, lank with sweat. Gimli rushed to his side. The drinking skin forgotten, he dropped to his knees with a heavy sound and released his long-held tears.

 

“Foolish Elf!” he cried, “what have you done to us?” He stroked the brow of Legolas, which was scorched with fever. “It was my wound to endure... and you have stolen it, though I know not how.” Bitterly he lay his forehead against the Elf's burning shoulder. “If you perish now, I will never forgive you.”

 

Legolas did not seem to sense his presence. His body tensed and quivered with tiny spasms of pain, and small sounds of anguish rose and died in his throat. Gimli wiped away the tear-tracks upon his cheeks with a dusty finger. “Can you hear me, Legolas?” he said quietly, cupping the Elf's face in his palm. “Do you feel my hand? Give me some sign that your spirit still lives... I beg you.”

 

“He cannot,” said a gentle voice behind him. Gimli turned to see the figure of an elderly woman stooping through the doorway. She was scarcely taller than he, wearing a raiment of simple linen that contrasted with her leathery skin. Two kind, dark eyes looked on him like glistening stones from her lined face, and her mouth was set in a sympathetic frown. She withdrew a handful of herbs from one of her many pockets and set it upon a low table with a mortar and pestle. “I am Erkenhart,” said she, “eldest of the healers in this city, though I would not be so proud as to call myself the wisest. I serve the Rohirrim and those who fight alongside them. Our people owe you both a great debt.”

 

Gimli daubed the dampness from his eyes with the end of his beard. “How fares the Elf?” he asked her as she took a basin of warm water and a cloth and sat beside him.

 

“Hold him,” she said, and began to clean the wound with gentle strokes. The breath rushed from Legolas' lungs in a harsh cry, and he writhed under her hands. Alarmed, Gimli grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him back into the straw. “Easy,” Erkenhart crooned, though her voice did little to soothe the Elf, who twisted like an eel in a fisherman's net. Gimli thought the woeful sounds that were wrenched from Legolas' throat in those long moments would ring in his ears forever.

 

At last, the water in the basin turned to gray-brown filth, and Erkenhart relented. Legolas fell back upon the linen with a groan that broke into a series of quiet sobs. Gimli slackened his grip, but did not let go; instead, he took Legolas' clammy hands in his own and squeezed, hoping desperately to show the Elf that he was not alone. The healer rose and passed the sullied bowl to the boy, who had reappeared in the doorway. She murmured some instructions to him and he shot away once more.

 

“Elves are sturdy folk,” she said as she scrubbed her soiled hands. “Even now, the wound is knitting. It is the poison that troubles me. I suspect it is _Morgurth_ , the like of which has not been seen in this land since ages past. It is a vile thing, made from the venom of dragons. Only two known antidotes exist; the _laurrë_ -lilyfrom the snows beyond the Northern Wastes, and _durad,_ which grows at the edge of the sea.”

 

Gimli felt his blood grow cold. “Those do not sound like plants one would find in the southern plains,” he said grimly. He watched Legolas' eyes dart blindly behind his closed lids. The Elf's hands twitched weakly against the white linen.

 

“You are fortunate, Master Dwarf, said Erkenhart. “My folk have long been at work taming the flora of this land. My ancestors discovered that a similar remedy can be culled from the flower called _simbelmynë.”_

 

“The one that grows upon the tombs of the kings?” asked Gimli. Hope fluttered in his heart.

 

“The very same. My grandson is collecting some as we speak. Though it is not as strong as the _laurrë-_ lily, in time it will have the same effect. But he will need constant care.” Erkenhart narrowed her eyes. “Are you willing to tend to him?”

 

Gimli met her gaze with a fierce pride that only a Dwarf could muster. “I will do whatever is needed.”

 

“ _Morgurth_ dissolves the brain,” Erkenhart said softly. “But there is no way of predicting where it will strike, especially in a creature as strange as an Elf. When he wakes, he may be blind, or deaf, or lame. He may have forgotten the life he led before. He may have forgotten you. Do you still accept?”

 

The Dwarf's throat tightened. “It changes nothing,” he said firmly. “I will attend him. But I am a warrior; I am not skilled in the healing arts.”

 

“I will show you what you need to know,” said the healer. “But there is little to be done once the antidote is given. Your labors will lie in keeping him calm, and when he returns to himself, you must help him to live with the damage, whatever it may be.”

 

* * *

 

The boy returned a few torturous hours later with an apron full of tiny white blossoms, their sweet scent lost in the perfumed interior of the healer's house. With the same stern but kindly expression as his grandmother, he lay them upon the table and began to pluck the petals from the stems one by one. After a while, Gimli tore himself from Legolas' side and kept busy by stoking the fire for the distilling of the antidote. It was only after the potion was simmering that he recalled the plight of the villagers with a stab of guilt. Erkenhart bade Gimli stay and rest in the sickroom, and sent her grandson to alert the riders.

 

With careful, steady hands that concealed great strength, Erkenhart showed Gimli how to prise the Elf's jaw open and pour a small measure of water down his raw throat. At first, the Dwarf's hands shook, but he quickly mastered the maneuver. The light outside the hut was already failing, and as his panic had dissipated, Gimli felt overcome by a sudden, crippling exhaustion. After crossing the plain on foot and gathering firewood outside, it seemed his legs would carry him no further. He sank to the ground beside Legolas' pallet and lay his back against the straw. Erkenhart pulled down a blanket embroidered with white horses and passed it to him where he lay.

 

“There are other beds, if you wish to sleep,” she said, “but I suspect you would like to stay close to your friend. I will wake you when the remedy is ready.”

 

Gimli thanked her and ran his hands over the soft wool of the blanket. It seemed too fresh and well-preserved to wrap his sweaty, travel-stained body, but he wrapped himself in it nevertheless. Craning his neck back, he took one last look at Legolas' face, reaching out to smooth the lines of anguish that had not disappeared since his arrival. On a whim, he turned and snaked his arms out from beneath their covers.

 

“Legolas?” he whispered into one pointed ear. “I know not if you can hear me, or if you still know your own name.” His throat grew dry upon uttering these words, and he pushed away a wave of terrible, bleak thoughts. “You sacrificed your life for mine, no matter my opinion of your methods. For that, I am yours. My heart will not rest until I see you on your feet again, loosing your arrows and singing your strange Elvish songs.” He reached downward and took the Elf's limp, slender hand in his own, settling against the side of the bed to sleep. “Come back to me, Legolas,” he whispered. “Please.”

 


End file.
